


joyeux anniversaire

by sketchnurse



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Post-Savoureux
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 15:09:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sketchnurse/pseuds/sketchnurse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Jack's birthday. Not that it matters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	joyeux anniversaire

**Author's Note:**

> Another kink meme prompt.

 

It's a Tuesday.  
  
Gloomy enough, a rainy spring day with more wind and cold than is usual. Normally, he wouldn't be bothered by such weather, but today he feels like something in the world is mocking him.  _Hello, Jack_ , the downpours seem to say.  _This is how much we understand what your life is right now. This is how much power there is in the world, and how much it won't help you._  
  
When Alana passes him in the hall, in a rush, as she always is these days, he is treated to a small, weak smile.   
  
He is supposed to meet with her later. Strategy discussions. Plans of action. Consultations.  
  
He feels so old. So old.   
  
In the labs Beverly Katz doesn't bother with any looks of pity, instead launching right into her fiber analysis. His mind drifts, thinking back to younger days, and why hadn't he  _seen_? Had he been so focused on results that he'd been so willing to— willing to—  
  
"Crawford?" Price's eyes watch him carefully, and he thinks perversely that with a little push, he could very well start on Will's path.   
  
Nothing so drastic as Graham's fall, of course. But he could crumble. He could crack.  
  
Could he ever be the one they watch, the water cooler talk? There must be a dearth of gossip, with Will's fate all but set in stone.   
  
He cannot think that way. He is supposed to be the Guru, the one they all watch, the one who inspires and finds and nurtures and elevates.   
  
But, he wonders. Maybe he should talk to someone about it. He almost laughs, at the idea of  _really_  bringing his problems to Dr. Lecter.  
  
His last project is now fever-free and totally insane. Incarcerated. Where he belongs.   
  
Would Will Graham ever have ended up there, if Jack hadn't offered up the triggers?   
  
(Whose project had he been?)  
  
There's nothing more to see down there, so he reluctantly leaves and takes the fast elevator up to his office. Awaiting him is paperwork, correspondence, emails to answer and memos to send.   
  
Court dates. He knows they are looming, knows that they are waiting for him in an envelope he has yet to open.   
  
Bella is in California, consulting a cancer specialist, one Jack had found for her. She had only agreed to go on the condition that Jack would stay behind. She hadn't bothered to come up with reasons. He hadn't bothered to ask.   
  
He checks his phone again, though he knows there will be nothing new.  
  
He almost jolts at the little message icon at the top, hoping, wishing, stupidly—  
  
He opens it.   
  
 _Hi, Jack. I'm going to have to move you to tomorrow; one of my patients had an episode this morning, and I need to accompany him to hospital. Would the same time work?_  
  
Alana. Not Bella. She's only been gone a day, but already he feels his mind trying to learn what it will be, a Bella-free life.   
  
He feels so old.   
  
It's weird, but he actually feels different, like today, of all days, the additional time he has lived is now just properly weighing on him, enough to be felt. It's never happened to him before.   
  
Maybe this is finally the age when it doesn't matter anymore, getting a year older. Maybe it's the weight of expectation and failure.   
  
He supposes most people get their birthday greetings through Facebook nowadays, anyway. Why bother with a card when an online message will suffice? Why even remember birthdays, when Facebook will do it for you?   
  
He wonders what he'd find, if he were to log on. He'd long since removed his date of birth from public access, so the only ones who'd know to write on his timeline would be those who shouldn't need to. His mother, perhaps, would quickly jot something down, before moving on to her bridge friends, and their never-ending stream of quilt photographs.   
  
His card from her always arrives at least a week late, no matter how far in advance she seems to plan it.   
  
He wonders if Will would ever have been the type to send cards. It could have gone either way.  
  
His phone rings. He sits through another long conversation with a moronic colleague. The heat in his office is on too high, and he sweats under his collar, his finger looking for space to let the hot air escape. He struggles to find one as the man on the phone prattles on, trying to appeal to Jack's loyalty to the FBI, to his common sense.   
  
He snaps at the man on the phone, calls him an idiot. The smack against the receiver when he hangs up is a noise that his office absorbs almost immediately; none of it hangs around, none of it echoes.   
  
He wishes it had. He wishes there were more to his soundscape than distant photocopiers and hushed conversations.   
  
He checks his cell, sees no new messages, responds to Alana.   
  
The day drags on until he feels like time is actually spreading him thin, like pieces of himself are being given to other things, like if he doesn't proceed with caution, with planning, he'll leave them behind.   
  
He wants to give in to temptation and leave and never answer another call and go to his house and stay there until someone breaks the door down to see where he's gone.   
  
Procedure. He goes through it all, drops off the right files and says the right goodbyes and soon he's in his car and ready to drive home and he hopes to God that there won't be a murder, that there won't be a problem, that he can just collapse into his bed and wish that Bella were there.   
  
He's just about to open his door when he notices a off-white card sticking just slightly out of his mailbox. Curious despite his exhaustion, he slides it free.   
  
On it is Dr. Lecter's familar, neat script.   
  
 _Jack,  
  
I was sorry to learn that your Bella is out of town for the week. I thought perhaps you would appreciate some company tonight. Unfortunately, the acquaintance I was to have for dinner had her plans change at the last minute, and I find myself with the ingredients for a lavish meal and no one to share them with. I will, of course, understand if you have other plans tonight. If not, I would welcome you at my table.   
  
Hannibal Lecter _  
  
It's half past five. Jack puzzles at Lecter dropping the invitation off at his home address, rather than at the office, or even calling to ask, and decides it would be best not to think too hard on it.   
  
When he reaches into his pocket to phone Lecter, at the top of the screen is the message icon. He breathes. He feels the shock of adrenaline, the shiver that runs through his body, the nervousness.  
  
 _Hope work wasn't too bad today._  says the message from Bella, as it had yesterday, and probably would tomorrow, and the day after.  _It's still so damn hot over here. Is it weird that I miss the weather in Baltimore? Never thought I'd actually wish for rain._  
  
He closes the message, dials Lecter's number.   
  
Maybe, after another satisfying dinner from the doctor, he'd be able to reply.

 

 


End file.
